To Love, Honor, and Obey
by hptriviachamp
Summary: "Do you think of me when we are not together?""Of you, and nothing else." How pretty his words are! If she were of a different bend, then perhaps she would have scoffed at them, or maybe she would have been wholly enraptured and taken in by every line. She does neither. *ON HIATUS*
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

She still remembers how their courtship had started.

It was in a crowded ballroom, full of fluttering fans and gossip and gowns. The center was full of eligible bachelors and new debutantes, while the sides were dominated by matrons plotting and gentlemen politicking.

She had just come back from Wellesley College, and after two idyllic years in Cambridge, she had felt as though the very world was at her feet… at least, until she had returned to Boston, her hometown. Within hours of her return, she had been told in no uncertain terms that she would not be returning, and that she was expected to make an appearance at the ball the Fitzgeralds would be hosting.

The gossip at the ball was more frantic than she must have remembered, but she was quickly assured that this was not the case, because among the guests was a gentleman from England- a Viscount, at that. Already, she could hear matchmaking mamas hissing instructions to their daughters to look their best and smile and somehow secure at least one dance with the Viscount Radcliffe.

Amy herself is gladly thinking how she wasn't going to be one of the unfortunate daughters pushed at the uninterested lord (I mean really, why would he be?).

But then, there's a whisper in her ear, and a nudge in his direction by her grandmother, far more subtle than any other matron has managed thus far, and suddenly, she's standing right in front of him.

She glances first behind her, where her grandmother is standing, a society smile firmly in place, but her eyes already looking calculatingly between her and Lord Radcliffe.

It isn't that Grace Cahill is a social climber. It was just that she always remembered the stench of poverty and later, new money that had lingered around their family for her entire life. Now, no one could deny that the Cahills were a wealthy family, but they were still very much ensconced in the _nouveau riche_ , something she firmly intended to change.

And so when the Cahill matriarch caught wind of the fact that an English viscount was visiting his friends in Boston, she immediately set out to ensure Amy got to him before anybody else. If the Boston Brahmins couldn't accept her family as one of its own, then perhaps having a viscountess, and future countess in the family would change their mind.

Now, Amy has turned back around, feeling very much like a deer caught in the headlights, when her Uncle Fiske comes up to them.

"Ah! Amelia, dear," he booms jovially, "I just saw-" he pauses, as if noticing the viscount for the first time, and his eyes widen theatrically. "Well how fortuitous! Have you been introduced?" He asks her.

This must have all been planned, Amy realizes, taking care not to betray anything through her expression, and only wordlessly shakes her head.

"Then I shall do the honors," Uncle Fiske says agreeably. "Lord Radcliffe, may I introduce my grand-niece, Miss Amelia Cahill, the one I was telling you about-" he looks significantly at the viscount, "-and Amy, this, as you know, is Lord Rosenbloom, the Viscount Radcliffe."

She curtseys politely, and he bows, and when they straighten up, she notes his features: Tall, Dark hair and eyes, and an overall air that could have been seen as stern, perhaps even dour, had be not been what one would consider classically good-looking. Of course, even a lack of looks could be forgiven if one was a viscount, Amy thinks sardonically, noticing how his gaze lingers on her a touch longer than appropriate before he speaks.

"Miss Cahill, I'm delighted to make your acquaintance," he pronounces upon judgement.

"And you as well, my Lord," she says, making sure to keep her eyes slightly downcast, and his smile widens, possibly because she's the most demure lady he's seen in this entire ballroom. Her peers are mostly giggly, fluttery things that don't have a care greater than their hair, or future marriage prospects. Amy has found out over time that simply by not behaving as such, it was far easier to receive serious male attention, namely, those interested in marriage. Of course, whatever intelligence or wit she possessed had to be hidden too, but that's a sacrifice she must make if she wants to play the game.

The question is, does she want to?

Just then, a lively song starts up, and the Viscount holds his hand out to her. "If you are free, Miss Cahill, may I have this next dance?"

She musters smile. "Of course, my Lord."

The dance has simple steps, leaving ample time for them to face each other and converse, but so far, he's made absolutely no effort. It's awkward at first, and Amy wonders if she'll have to be the lady and make some conversation, but he surprises her by speaking first.

"Your uncle was telling me you had recently arrived back from school. Where is it that you attend?

"I went to Wellesley, my Lord."

"Finishing school?"

"No, my Lord… college. I was studying literature," she says hesitantly. All of Boston society had wondered if her father had lost her mind when he allowed her to receive higher education that was not finishing school, and if that were the case, then what would the viscount think?

He doesn't express any outright disapproval- at first.

"But I suppose you are done?" He asks shrewdly, eying her expensive attire, a peach silk confection with lace overlay, and the family jewels her mother had forced on her for the evening. Young women didn't dress like this unless they were in the marriage market, and he certainly knew it.

"Yes, my lord."

"Good," he says approvingly, and she feels her insides curl up at that pronouncement. "I find that young ladies learn the best from being out in society, rather being inside a schoolroom learning things of no real value."

Amy bites back a retort about all the useless knowledge he must have picked up in his public school and Oxbridge career, and instead asks, "And you, my lord- what did you study in university?"

"Political science in Cambridge-" _called it_ , Amy thinks, "-as well as the classics. I am quite active in Parliament now."

Politics! There is a topic she knows very well. Being the daughter and granddaughter of Boston politicians has its perks, and she's seen campaigns up close since she was born.

"How fascinating," she smiles, "My father and grandfather both served in the House of Representatives, and I am quite familiar with all the machinations employed in the business."

She looks up at him, hoping that perhaps they can find some common ground… perhaps discuss the politics of the day. She enjoys reading newspapers from Boston, New York, as well as across the pond, and maybe he can offer her more insight than the papers can.

"Yes well, the House of Representatives, and House of Lords are two very different things."

Well.

 _You earn the seat in one, and just inherit in the other_ , Amy wants to say, but keeps her mouth shut, well aware that he completely dismissed her with one remark.

But nonetheless, he asks her to dance with him twice more by the end of the night.

Before the final dance, a waltz, Dan corners her under the guise of giving her a glass of punch, and mutters, "How's Lord Snob-cliffe?"

Amy rolls her eyes at his juvenile insult. Sometimes, it was hard to imagine that he would be headed for Harvard come fall.

"He's perfectly fine, thank you," Amy sniffs, to which Dan scoffs.

"You'll have to find him more than _fine_ , what with all the grand plans grandmother has for you."

"What plans?" Amy asks dismissively. "I hardly think she's basing my entire life off of two- well now three- dances with the same man, no matter how eligible he might be."

And with that, the man in question himself comes up to her and sweeps her back onto the dance floor, leaving Dan to murmur only so Amy could hear, "just you wait."

At the end of the night, her grandmother looks particularly proud as her glowering brother escorts her out of the ballroom.

* * *

They see each other twice more, once at a picnic, and another time at a party in her own home. Both times, he pays her marked attention, far more than any other young lady.

This garners the surprise, and even scorn, of the other ladies. She's always been known as a bit of a blue-stocking, and the fact that her father had let her attend college was seen as a poor choice on his part- after all, how did she expect to find a husband if she always had her nose buried in a book?

The viscount was lucky that he didn't know about her reputation, many a matron had snickered.

Amy herself is not really sure of the all the attention she's been receiving.

It's certainly a compliment to be singled out by an English aristocrat, especially an unmarried one.

Lord Radcliffe is a perfectly nice man, and clearly an intelligent one at that, and although he makes no attempt to stop her from expressing her own intelligent opinion, he never does take it seriously, dismissing it, or quashing it with some condescending remark.

It's all done very elegantly, of course, but what did that say about him as a person? But then again, who was she to question any of it? He was a lord, and she was a plain, old Miss Cahill.

This is not her first courtship (she thinks with a pang of Evan, who is still abroad, and the gathering letters she has not replied to, not at the risk of being caught and jeopardizing her reputation and her family's), but there is something different about this… she can't quite put her finger about it, but there is something unsettling about the whole affair, and she hopes it will all be forgotten when he progresses south to New York City.

* * *

"Lord Radcliffe has written to me," her father announces at the breakfast table, about a week after the man in question had left to visit friends in New York.

Amy looks up from her spoonful of porridge, and notes that her mother and grandmother immediately stop what they're doing to listen as well.

"He has asked me- formally," her father adds, "to court you, Amy. He has assured me that he is very much in love with you."

The table bursts with delight and excitement at that proclamation, her mother gasping in awe and her father giving her one of his rare smiles as Uncle Fiske, who is breakfasting with them this morning, goes into raptures about how he was the one to make the introduction, and that he'd known from the moment they met how perfect they were for each other etc. etc.

In between it all, her grandmother leans in and kisses her cheek, murmuring "congratulations, dear." When she pulls away, Amy can see a calculating gleam in her eye, as though she is plotting Amy's next ten steps in ten seconds.

"I've barely met him three times," Amy says to the table at large in wonderment, and if she's being honest, shock.

"It doesn't take that long for a man to fall," her mother says sagely. "You are, after all, a lovely young lady, Amy."

"I doubt it was the loveliness," Dan mutters into his cup, and their mother glares at him.

"Well," he father says, "I'm inclined to give my agreement to this, if Amy has no objections, of course," he says, looking at her.

"Of course," Amy repeats numbly.

"It is settled then," he says, "I shall write to him immediately after breakfast."

"Oh Amy," her mother says in raptures, "Just think, you could be a Viscountess! Think about the jewels and pin-money and-"

"Calm yourself, dear," Grace says. "Amy still needs to get engaged to him, and there are the papers and the settlement-"

"Pish-posh," Uncle Fiske booms, "Mark my words, the girl will be married to him by summer's end."

"A lord doesn't come-" Grace coughs delicately, "-cheaply."

"We have the means, mother," Hope replies. "And my daughter becoming a member of the English aristocracy is a price we are willing to pay."

It's not even the fact that she's being discussed like a commodity- something to be bought and sold- but the way her mother says it, it's as though her and her father have already spoken of this at length, and came to one sole conclusion: she must be married to the Viscount.

* * *

Later that day, Amy is passing the parlor when she overhears conversation in the room. The door is closed, which is curious, and she can't help but lean against the wall to listen, especially when her name is mentioned.

"-Must be sure of the chances of him proposing to her," she hears her mother tell the other person in the parlor.

"From what I have seen, he seems to be considering her seriously," her grandmother replies.

Amy's face falls. They're still discussing her and Lord Radcliffe. To be honest, she herself isn't sure if there is a "her and Lord Radcliffe", but society, and more importantly her family, has deemed it as such, and she has no power to convince them otherwise.

"And the marriage and move to England isn't our biggest problem. If Amy were to marry him, of course she would eventually become a Countess, but if she doesn't secure her husband an heir…"

"Does the viscount have any siblings?" Her mother asks worriedly.

"A younger brother-" Grace says, and then adds pointedly, "-who could inherit."

"She would have to have a son," Hope says, a note of tension in her voice. "But mother, our family isn't exactly known for their ability to have many children, let alone sons."

"Nonsense," Grace waves her hand, "you managed it perfectly all right."

"But it was a painful ordeal, one I nearly didn't recover from."

"Amy is a strong girl, Hope. She will be fine." Grace's tone has an edge of finality in it, effectively ending the conversation.

Amy's heart is still racing when she makes her way up the stairs and into her bedroom.

* * *

As he said in his letter, the Viscount is back in three weeks, and the courtship begins, mostly consisting of him escorting her to various social events, and calling on her every few days.

After nearly a month of this, Amy can see no discernible difference in the way he treats her- perfunctory at best, and completely ignoring her at worst. She is beginning to wonder if this is all going to lead to something more (and scarcely hoping to believe otherwise, because she's been disappointed in the past), when one morning, mid-July, when calling hour has just begun, Amy's mother bursts into her room, where she is reading.

"Amy," she whispers, her eyes wide, and Amy looks around to see if anyone is behind her, and they aren't, so why is she whispering? But she barely has time to pose the question, because her mother is dragging her out of her seat, and pushing her in front of her vanity, frantically calling for a maid to help her with Amy's hair. Her dress is deemed acceptable, and her mother pinches her cheeks "to give it a bloom", and then finally composes herself before escorting Amy downstairs.

"I don't understand," Amy hisses, "what is happening?"

"You are to go to the formal drawing room, and await Lord Radcliffe," her mother tells her, to which she only nods, still confused as to what is occurring.

She's about to make her way to the room as instructed, when her mother grabs her arm not harshly, and speaks, her voice suddenly thick with emotion.

"And Amy?" Amy notices tears gleaming in her eyes, eyes that shine with pride in a way they have never done, at least, when concerning her. "Good luck." Her mother clumsily kisses her cheek, sniffing and wiping away tears, and then walks away.

When Amy enters the room, she scarcely has time to walk in before the doors open once more, and the Viscount is announced.

Amy whirls around, and at his presence, everything is put in place.

The hair, her mother's sudden burst of pride, being left alone in a room with the one man she has been courting recently…

"Lord Radcliffe," she says breathlessly. "To what…" she flounders for a moment, "do I owe the pleasure?"

He advances forward, the usual perfunctory expression on his face. When he speaks, however, they convey anything but.

"Miss Cahill, It would please me if you could address me by my given name- Jacob."

"My Lord, I'm not sure that's proper," Amy says in half-protest, her mind going at a mile a minute, because _oh God_ , is he really about to do this?

The whole time her parents and grandmother had schemed, she had kept silent, because she couldn't bring herself to disappoint them by telling them that he would never go as far as to offer for her, but what if they were right all along?

What did he see in her?

In public, she hardly dared to stand out, knowing that she came off awkward and bookish to those who thought they knew her, and shy and demure to those who didn't-

Unless, he _wanted_ her to play the demure housewife, cooped up in some ancient ancestral home while he gallivanted about in Parliament-

Her heart is racing as she looks up at him.

"It is," he assures her, and then to her horror, he goes down on one knee before her. "Especially if…" he inhales deeply, as if nervous, but the previous statement tells Amy that he is anything but unsure at this point. "Before I say anything, I assure you that I have asked your father for permission, and he has given his blessing and consented to me asking you this: Miss Cahill, since the moment I met you, I knew that you were the woman I wanted to spend my life with, the sort of woman that would fit in well in my circles in England, and in my family. Your accomplishments do you credit, but it is your modesty and simplicity that I found most becoming, which is why, Miss Cahill- Amelia- will you marry me?

"Marry you?" She echoes back, and though his face falls slightly at her reaction, he continues, evidently emboldened by the lack of outright rejection.

"Yes," he says, "And move to England with me. You would be a viscountess, and in time, a countess-" Amy internally snorts; of course he has to bring his title into this, "-and we would spend most of the year in London, and some time Westborough Hall- that is, the family estate- and," he adds as an afterthought, "I like you very much."

It would be so easy to dismiss this man and his plain-spoken, rather ridiculous (to her) speech, until one realized that he was not just a man, but an English viscount who had offered her, a mere Boston Miss, marriage. If she accepted, she would rise above the social strata, far above the place afforded to her at birth, and if she refused, she would be shunned likely by not only her parents, but the rest of society, and no one would ever propose to her again.

In short, he had nothing to lose by proposing to her, and she had _everything_ to lose if she did not accept.

For the her entire life, she had liked to pretend that perhaps their world was moving forward, and marriage was a choice, not an absolute. Her time at Wellesley had shown her that this was indeed possible, but now… it all seems so black and white.

But maybe England will be different. She has so often heard about how London was the world leader of fashion, art, philosophy, and this surely must apply to women's rights as well- not just for things like owning property or the ability to vote, but the freedom to have opinions, to express them and speak out- in short, all Amy's ever wanted.

Perhaps this is her future- her destiny in some way. She will be the pioneer that changes pushes the boundaries of what is acceptable, towards what is _right_ , and all while having a husband by her side.

"Yes Lord Ra- _Jacob_ ," she says, finally meeting his eyes with as much strength as she can muster, "I will marry you."

* * *

 _And that's the prologue, folks!_

 ***This is for** **Star and Addict's Summer Contest***

 _(Figured I'd put that in somewhere)_

 _So I figure I should probably give historical context of some variety, and here it is._

 _1) This is taking place in the late-ish Victorian era, and this chapter is all set in Boston. Amy is from a wealthy Boston family, and Jake is an English peer, his full title being "Lord Jacob Rosenbloom, the Viscount Radcliffe", and thus he is referred to as simply "Lord Radcliffe"._

 _During this time, a lot of newly-wealthy American women were married off to titled members of the European nobility, often English peers. The families of these women couldn't get a lot of social acceptance because they were still considered "new money", so it was hard for these young women to find the most eligible matches in America, because though they were filthy rich, they lacked pedigree, like Amy does. But many of their families figured that getting their daughter married into European nobility would ensure their own social acceptances, and they could rub it in the faces of the "old money" people._

 _European nobles went along with this, and had a lot to gain from marrying wealthy American women. By this time, the cost of living was increasing faster and faster, and it was getting harder to fund their lavish lifestyles and huge estates. Marrying a rich woman would get them a large dowry they could spend on maintaining their lifestyles._

 _So basically, the women got the title, and the men got the money._

 _2) Wellesley College is one of the first women's colleges, and is located in Cambridge, Massachusetts. It was a closely connected Harvard early on. Notable alumni include Hillary Clinton and Madeleine Albright._

 _3) "Boston Brahmins" was a term coined to refer to old, prominent Massachusetts families that had been around since the Revolution, or before. They were all WASPs (White Anglo-Saxon Protestants), the key distinction between them and people like the Cahills being that the Cahills weren't Protestant, and were Catholic. "Brahmin" families included the Adams', Coolidges, Delanos, Forbes', and the Quincys. The two most famous people I can think of that came from these families are probably FDR (Franklin Delano Roosevelt) and John Forbes Kerry, a former Secretary of State, although three other presidents, John Adams, John Quincy Adams, and Calvin Coolidge, did come from the same stock._


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Amy hears the bells tolling as carriages rolls up to Trinity Church, the church where her great-great-grandparents had found refuge, and gladly converted from Catholicism for a chance at a better life.

She feels a twinge of irony at her situation: A hundred years ago, the Cahills had come to America from Ireland with no name or fortune, oppressed by their British landlords, and now look at her- She, Amelia Cahill, was going to marry Lord Jacob Rosenbloom, the Right Honourable Viscount Radcliffe, a member of the British aristocracy.

Now she is in a small alcove on the second floor of the church, looking absently out the window as the women of her family rush around, and attend to final preparations.

Her gown is an elaborate confection of snow white lace and taffeta, mirroring all the latest fashions and having taken three weeks for the best seamstress in Boston and all her assistants to create. Amy had wanted her gown to be cream, but Lord Radcliffe had refused to entertain her idea, stating that if white was good enough for Her Majesty the Queen of England on her wedding day, then it would be good enough for Amy.

The girls and women tending to her now are all distant Cahill relatives, some from New England- Boston and Newport, and others from New York and further south. They bustle around, aiding in some task, if not, then trying conversing with her about some inane topic or another.

"Do you have your something old?" One of her cousins from the Newport side asks, and Amy plasters a smile on her lips before turning to meet her cousin's eyes.

"Yes," she says, baring her wrist, around which her father's mother's elegant bracelet rests. In truth, she is wearing two old things: the bracelet, but also an old Irish rosary nestled under her bodice. Amy had originally wanted that to be her "something old", but her mother had firmly dismissed it, scandalized that Amy should bring up any mention of their Irish Catholic past.

"Your new?" Another cousin asks eagerly, catching on.

Earrings created to match the bracelet.

"Something borrowed?"

Her mother's veil.

"Something blue?"

Her shoes.

Satisfied, the cousins moves away. Soon enough, all of them have left the room to follow her mother, so that they may arrange themselves for the bridal procession. Now, it is just her in the room, awaiting her father so that he may escort her downstairs, and down the aisle.

Just then, someone on the door knocks, and she hears the sound of the organs.

It is time.

* * *

When she enters the main chapel, all rise, and she can feel the weight of everyone's gaze on her, even though she cannot see them, for her eyes are focused on the floor, and not ahead.

They say that the happiest moments of a woman's life is when she walks down the aisle, knowing that her past is behind her, and that her future is secure. There should be clarity of vision as she looks ahead to see what is in store: fulfilling her marital duties, setting up a home, bearing children, nurturing them and watching them grow… All until the cycle can be repeated once more.

But now, all Amy can see ahead is smoke and shadow.

She doesn't weep or cry beneath her veil- no, she's willed herself not to, and she is far too strong to do so- at least, she tells herself as much as she slowly walks towards the waiting viscount and reverend.

Are all brides' minds this turmoiled?

 _Perhaps._

Can others tell though?

 _Of course not._

Even her own father is beaming proudly as he escorts her, nodding and smiling at various people in the pews, looking at everyone except at his own daughter who he is about to give away in holy matrimony.

She finally reaches the front of the church, and is formally handed off to her husband-to-be.

He is wearing full formal attire, black and tails, and he has a flower pinned to his lapel.

He doesn't say anything to her, merely taking her had before turning to the waiting reverend.

They are married as per the Anglican church's _Book of Common Prayers_ , at Lord Radcliffe's insistence. It is not much different from the words Amy has grown up hearing, but still, it feels as though her parents had been willing to make an infinite number of concessions to just be able to marry her off to the viscount.

The vows begin.

"Jacob Andrew, do you take Amelia Edith to be your wife? Will you love her, comfort her, honor and protect her, in sickness and in health, in poverty and prosperity and forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?" The reverend asks him first, and he doesn't even hesitate before giving his response.

"I will."

The reverend turns to her.

"Amelia Edith, do you take Jacob Andrew to be your wife? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him, obey and serve him, in sickness and in health, in poverty and prosperity and forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?

 _Ah, there it is- obedience_ , she thinks vaguely- the word in her vows that is not in his.

It's strange.

Half of Boston has showed up to her wedding, and yet, she's never felt more alone in the world. All she can see is the reverend looking to her for her affirmation, while the viscount stares intently at her, as though trying to will the words to come out of her mouth.

The question is a mere formality to conclude something that was already settled long ago, but Amy pauses and wonders, what if she cannot honor her vows, her very words in front of God as her witness?

But when she looks out into the crowd of guests and her family, she knows what all of them expect her to say- indeed, she sees her mother and Grace practically hanging at the edges of their seats as they wait for her to say the words that will, in some ways, condemn her to a life she never dreamed of wanting, or having.

And who is she to go against society, and perhaps even God himself?

"I will."

* * *

The rest of the ceremony is concluded speedily- rings are exchanged, words are spoken, a formal, slightly stiff kiss is bestowed upon her by the Viscount- and now they are married.

She is a married woman now- Lady Amelia Edith Rosenbloom, the Viscountess Radcliffe.

She and the Viscount then immediately depart for the Cahill's ballroom, followed closely behind by the family and other guests, for a grand reception that will go on for much of the afternoon.

Amy can't do much besides receive various guests and thank them for their attendance at her wedding. The Viscount, her new _husband_ , is doing mostly the same.

In part, she is thankful for how their various duties keep them separate, because it prevents her from having to speak with him, as she really does not know what she should say.

Luckily, she does not dwell long on it, as a horde of relatives and family-friends descend upon her. Her mother stands by her side as congratulations are heaped upon her for having made such an eligible match. Indeed, the same variations of "Oh how lucky you are!" and "You're rich! And titled!" are repeated over and over, until Amy has to wonder about the felicitations she is sure to be the recipient of once she is with child, and all for the laborious task of having been impregnated.

It is then that her mind goes to what is expected of her tonight, her wedding night. She does not feel much fear, for she knows what her duties will entail- it is merely the idea of doing it with someone she hardly knows-

Indeed, what will he be like?

He's a handsome enough man, but so… she supposes "repressed" isn't the right word, for Lord Radcliffe is open enough, and isn't too much of the moralizing sort, although he is somewhat of a high stickler for etiquette and propriety.

Is that how he will be like in their marital bed? Not cold, but certainly not warm, expecting her to be fully submissive to his every whim- indeed, what whims does he possess?

Her knowledge of what goes on in the marriage bed may be more than most brides, but she tries not to think about it too much as a rule, to day being an exception. Her family may have converted decades ago, but that does not stop a heavy dose of Catholic guilt she feels when she even thinks about intercourse, because, as she had been told numerous times over the years, losing one's maidenhead before marriage was akin to losing it to the devil.

Lost in her thoughts, she barely notices someone walk up to her and lightly tap her on the shoulder.

"Lady Radcliffe," a voice says.

 _Speak of the devil himself._

Her heart thuds once, and she can barely bring herself to turn, but she does, adjusting her voluminous skirts as she does so. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that her husband is still being accosted by what seems to be every well-wisher in Boston, wanting to meet the English Viscount who has married one of their own.

Good.

"Mr. Tolliver," she acknowledges, hesitant to meet his blue gaze head on.

"You look beautiful," he tells her, and then adds with a bitter smile, "white suits you."

"Evan," she murmurs gently, hoping that they both can get through this conversation without causing a scene. "Don't-"

"When you stopped replying to my letters I thought it was something I had said or done or-" he breaks off and suddenly looks vaguely at her midsection and asks, "It's not because you're with child, are you?"

Her eyes widen at his audacity- to inquire whether she is with child on her wedding day!

 _But then_ , the more rational side of her brain whispers, _he has every cause, every right to check._

"No," she hastens to assure him after she checks to see if anyone is listening. "No, of course not."

"Good," he says, with somewhat palpable relief. An awkward silence settles over them, and she longs to tell him how she never wanted this, and that it just happened, and-

"I'm to be engaged."

 _Oh._

"Congratulations. Do I know…" she trails off, unable to complete the sentence.

"One of the Fitzgerald girls."

"Then I wish you all the best," she tells him, with some amount of truth.

He looks at her sadly. "She is not my first choice- Amy, surely you must know- it was always you."

The tears that have been gathering in her eyes threaten to spill over- _but no she will not_. She has done so well today, and-

She feels a single droplet trail down her cheek, slowly, as if taunting her for being unable to hide her emotions on the day it was required more.

"I know. You were mine too," she says quietly; it's the most honest thing she's said all day.

"Then for old time's sake," he says, "may I kiss the bride?"

How can she refuse such as a heartbreaking request?

His hand reaches out, and he thumbs away the lone tear on her cheek. He then leans in and kisses her, impudently close to her lips. When he pulls away, she's staring at him, fighting the urge to say everything that she's kept within her, and he parts his lips as if to say something himself when they're interrupted.

"Darling?" Lord Radcliffe has now stepped beside her, and is eyeing Evan with some curiosity. She notes that this is the first time he has called her an endorsement of any kind- was he the jealous sort to only do so when he felt threatened by other men? "Are you going to introduce me?"

"Of course, my Lord," she says quickly. "This is Mr. Evan Tolliver. He has recently returned from Europe, and our families run in the same circles. Mr. Tolliver, this is my-" she swallows the lump that has been gathering in her throat, "-husband, Lord Rosenbloom, the Viscount Radcliffe."

"A pleasure," Lord Radcliffe says, extending his hand, and Evan takes it gingerly and shakes it. Lord Radcliffe then turns to her and says, "I believe it is time for us to cut the cake." Amy looks past him, and sure enough, her grandmother is gesturing for her to come where the large crowd of guests is assembling.

She turns back to Evan. "I'm sorry, but we-"

"-Of course," Evan nods graciously. "I wish you both the very best, Lady Radcliffe-" he nods at her, and then acknowledges as an afterthought, "Lord Radcliffe."

And with that, he slips away into the crowd, and out of her life.

But Amy hardly has any time to ponder on this, as Lord Radcliffe hurries her away so that they may cut the cake, three elaborate layers of fruitcake frosted, iced, painted, decorated, and monogrammed to mirror the latest fashion in London and on the continent.

Afterwards, lunch is served, though Amy hardly gets a bite in, having to speak to so many guests, and by the time the dancing begins, she is famished, but she must do her duty as she is ushered into the middle of the ballroom by the Viscount.

She is quite the in-demand partner, considering that she is the bride, and after several dances with her new husband, her father, and then her brother, she is swept into multiple quadrilles, polkas, mazurkas, and finally, a waltz with Lord Radcliffe.

This amuses her the most, because the Viscount looks as stiff and uncomfortable leading her in the once- scandalous dance as many of the matrons are watching it. This thinking is not at all reflected in the younger generations, and many an unmarried young lady is pulled back into her seat by her mother so that she does not join in.

For her part, Amy is quite comfortable, having taken several dance lessons in her youth, and when the waltz is finished, there is a loud enough applause that another waltz starts. Lord Radcliffe sits out this time, leaving Amy to dance with her brother.

"You're leaving after this?" Dan asks her as leads her deftly in a turn, so to avoid crashing into any other couple.

"I believe so," Amy nods. "I will be staying in his rented townhouse for the night, but," she brightens up slightly, "I will be coming home tomorrow before our departure."

"Good," Dan smiles, and then looks closely at her. "Are you excited?"

She blinks once, wondering what exactly he is referring to. The confusion must have shown on her face, because Dan throws his head back in hearty laughter.

"Come on, sis," he chortles, "did you really think I was referring to-" he cringes slightly, " _that_?"

"No," she replies, somewhat relieved. "No, I hoped you weren't."

"I was talking about our journey tomorrow," he explains.

"Well…" Amy trails off. "I only wish I had more time, but the Viscount is eager to go back home."

"Yes," Dan rolls his eyes, "I'm sure he is. I was speaking to him earlier and I could barely get him off the subject of being able to go back to serve Queen and country."

"It is the country he helps governs," Amy admonishes gently.

"Or rather," Dan says mockingly, "the country that governs him."

"Dan!"

Just then, the waltz comes to an end, and her mother hurries onto the dance floor.

"Lady Radcliffe- oh, how I adore addressing you as such-" Amy hides a scoff, "-the Viscount is ready to depart. We will all see you off."

Amy's heart grows heavy.

* * *

If lunch was a noisy, crowded affair, then dinner is the exact opposite. Lord Radcliffe arranges for just the two of them to have a quiet supper in his private rooms, having already shown the rooms that would function as her chambers until they left for England the next day.

Their meal is mostly silent, save the clattering and clinking of the utensils against their plates, and the occasional shuffling servants taking away their plates, and bring in the next course.

"Was the ceremony and reception to your taste?" He asks suddenly, and she looks up with a mouthful of roasted duck. She forces herself to quickly chew and swallow so that she may answer to not seem rude.

"Yes, they both were… very elegant," she says somewhat lamely, adding, "My mother and grandmother arranged it very well."

"Indeed," is all he can reply to that, and they both go back to their own meals.

Once they have eaten their fill (Amy had generously imbibed red wine over the course of the dinner as well) he escorts her to her chambers, where a maid is waiting.

"I shall leave you here," Lord Radcliffe announces somewhat awkwardly, "and I shall see you in an hour."

He bows and she curtseys and he leaves her.

The maid is the quick and efficient sort, and she is bathed quickly and dressed temporarily in a robe before he hair and skin are attended to.

Her hair is done in a loose braid so that it is comfortable to sleep in- once the deed is done, Amy's mind can't help but think. She is then changed into a nightgown, one of the several she had acquired after a rather lacking discussion with her mother and grandmother about what her marital duties would entail.

" _It will hurt at first,"_ her mother had told her, " _but you must do your duty and bear through it. The sooner you give him an heir, the sooner his attentions to you will stop. Indeed,"_ she had added thoughtfully _, "even pregnancy is a welcome respite from the marital bed."_

" _Wear something pretty the first night,"_ her grandmother, ever the pragmatic one, had suggested. " _Perhaps it will aid in his interest so that you may become with child sooner."_

It was then that she had the final part of Amy's wedding trousseau brought it- several nightgowns, all made of the finest laces and silks, and all of a more daring cut than she'd ever previously owned.

 _So this is what married life is,_ Amy had thought as she caressed one lacy nightgown that was particularly revealing- not much of course (after all, a certain standard of propriety has to be adhered to, even in one's private bedchamber), but far more than she had ever seen, or been exposed to.

Just then, there is a knock at the door, and the maid nearly jumps up, startled. Amy looks over at her, and it's almost as though a look passes between the two women, a sort of female solidarity for what Amy is about to experience. Amy feels unexpectedly warmed, even at the slight connection. She hasn't felt anything like that, however brief, since her days in Wellesley.

The door opens, and the maid lets Lord Radcliffe in, and then hastily curtsies to him before scurrying out the door.

Now it's just Amy and him.

"Wife," he says.

"Husband," she acknowledges in return, arranging her features to take on a blank expression, betraying no fear, nor any excitement.

His eyes are searching hers, then raking over her body the way they had the first time she had met him, and it makes her feel exposed, vulnerable, almost.

She knows she has pretty features and fashionably pale skin, and even if some find her hair and eye color to harken back to her impoverished roots, no one has ever accused her of being ugly.

But the way he's looking at her… he sees her as an object, another _thing_ to own and possess, she realizes with a start, and she won't let him do that.

Instead of lowering her eyes and blushing in response to his staring, she stares defiantly back at him, until he hastily clears his throat and speaks.

"I trust you have been informed as to your…" his mind is clearly searching for a delicate enough term to protect her maidenly ears, "- marital duties?"

"Yes my Lord," she nods, wondering if he will correct her use of his title, rather than his given name.

He doesn't.

"Good." He offers his arm to her, and she rises, accepting it, and he escorts her to the bed where their marriage will be consummated.

She is unsure of what to do now, having never gone to bed without already being at least in a passionate embrace, and so she sits at the edge, eventually fully reclining onto the bed, and quickly follows suit.

When he kisses her, it is not entirely unpleasant, though somewhat rough and artless. She remembers Evan's kisses- soft and sweet and _daring_ her to want more- ideal for a first lover, she had always thought.

She had been Evan's first, and he had been hers as well. There was something special about that. She had once imagined that they would be able to grow together as a couple, both sexually and otherwise, and when he would ask her father for her hand, it would be a mere formality, because of how in love they would already be.

That can never happen now.

All she will ever have are memories she will be forever doomed to look at through rose-tinted glasses.

But even memories can only last for so long.

Soon, she thinks, the memories her and Evan shared will only be but a dead dream in the distant past- she is married now, and he will be as well- but that doesn't stop her from remembering tonight.

Indeed, it is only the memory of Evan that gets her through the night, the way _he_ kissed her, the way _he_ touched her, the way _he_ made love-

Not the Viscount.

Is it wrong of her to do so? She thinks guiltily. Perhaps, but there is nothing pleasant about what she has to do now, pretend to be the innocent virgin he thinks she is- tighten herself and gasp as if in pain, until he finally finds his pleasure and collapses next to her, breathing heavily.

No words are exchanged for the rest of the night, and she feigns sleep until he eventually leaves her bedchambers, retiring to his own for the rest of the night.

Only then does she finally fall asleep.

* * *

 _I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I tried to stay as true to Victorian wedding customs as possible, but if anyone spots something historically inaccurate, let me know._

 _Just one note for this chapter:_

 _Evan tells Amy in this chapter that he is going to be engaged to "one of the Fitzgerald girls"._

 _The Fitzgeralds were a Irish-Catholic family that was prominent in Boston and Massachusetts politics. John Francis Fitzgerald was a popular Mayor of Boston, and had many children, one of whom for the sake of this story, we'll assume Evan Tolliver married. Another one of John Fitzgerald's daughters, Rose, would go onto marry Joseph P. Kennedy, and have nine children, among them being President John Fitzgerald Kennedy, Senator Robert "Bobby" Francis Kennedy, and Senator Edward "Ted" Kennedy._


End file.
